


7000 Miles Out

by Goldmonger



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Team Bonding, Team as Family, in a stunning twist Floyd is the mom friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldmonger/pseuds/Goldmonger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an overseas mission, the squad waits to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	7000 Miles Out

It was 3am on a Wednesday morning, during their second safe house occupation of the week. The sky was still dark, and the air was chill and silent; no hostiles, inbound or present. Bravo squad, led by Gomez, was six hours out, and what was left of Alpha squad was staring blankly at a broken iPad screen.

The assets were in the room behind Rick, clattering around and arguing over cutlery and freeze-dried MREs. It was easier to tune them out these days than it was a year ago. Like a mother with troublesome kids, Rick knew the real trouble was when things got suspiciously quiet.

He poked the tablet again, willing it to come online. It flickered every few seconds, as though realising he was desperate for power and taunting him with flashes of a lagging GPS. He didn’t even know if it was still emitting a signal. Maybe they’d been radio silent for too long, and Waller had called off Bravo squad’s evac chopper. It was more of a carpool anyway, Rick thought bitterly. Waller already had half the SEALs in her employ running a recon job in Iran, a few hundred klicks north-west; she probably sent them to pick up the assets begrudgingly, their usefulness as a resource barely overshadowing the nuisance of jeopardising an American intelligence operation. Their failure to apprehend or terminate the mysterious figurehead of a new terrorist cell – a cheerful group naming themselves ‘The Onslaught’ – hadn’t sat well with their fearless leader either. It had taken them two weeks to scope their target, establish a perimeter for the squad to patrol and gather information on the mark, and to generally live irritably in each other’s pockets – only to fumble at the last minute. It burned Rick up even to think about it. A hooded man escaping in a bulletproof SUV, the wheels keening on the road as Floyd’s shells tinkled against the concrete like rain, Harley screaming in frustration. They’d been close, too. Barrel to the back of the head close. Until Rick fucked it all up.

“Food’s getting cold.”

Rick didn’t turn around. “Not hungry.”

“Fine. Be like that. More for me.”

Rick continued to stare at the screen of the dying tablet, shaking it or tapping it lightly against the desk he was sitting on whenever it went dark. Cracks rippled from the point of impact like webs in the glass. He wished Floyd hadn’t thrown it, but he was too tired to be an ass about that again. He’d been angry too.

“It’s shit. Sure you don’t want any?”

Rick was going to get a headache if he clenched his teeth any harder. He took the small carton that was being proffered to him in his peripheral vision, placing it carefully between his knees and returning his attention to the screen.

“You know what’d be funny? If I got Croc and Boomer to hold you down while I spoon-fed you shitty Indian food from a bag.” There was a short, humourless bark of laughter. “Yeah. That’d make my day all right.”

Rick pointedly scooped a hefty helping of rice and beans from the still-hot carton and shovelled it into his mouth, dropping the plastic spork as he chewed the greasy meal supplement. He received a bitingly sarcastic “good job”, and then footsteps retreated, leaving him alone once again. Someone was complaining about their beef brisket MRE disappearing, claiming they’d been saving it for tomorrow night.

“We’re not gonna be here tomorrow, dipshit,” said Floyd, and there was a brief scuffle behind him. Rick didn’t look. Within seconds it was over, Boomer crowing about unfair tactics and insisting that he wasn’t a dipshit. Someone hissed at him in Japanese, and Floyd translated needlessly: “shut the hell up before you give away our position.”

Rick’s iPad screen fizzed with scattered pixels and died. Behind him, Harley was ramping up to another argument with Boomer, and the noise level was increasing. Rick put his head in his hands for a moment, the tablet all but forgotten beside him. Waller would be talking to the Quraci President within a day, if she wasn’t already, apologising profusely for the US citizens that had unlawfully infiltrated a Middle-Eastern nation’s national security in an attempt to assassinate an unknown political figure. “Out of control criminals” was one of her favourite public phrases, or “violent unhinged convicts” - none of whom could be traced back to her, of course. It was always Waller’s plan, but they took the bullets. Or narrowly avoided them. Rick rubbed the tender spot on his neck.

“There’s no _way_ you’re gettin’ that sleeping bag, you crusty kangaroo turd -,”

“I deserve it, you bottle blonde skank -,”

There was a slap and a gasp, and when Rick finally spun around to see what the issue was, Floyd had Boomer’s arms pinned while the Aussie yelled profanities at Harley, who was cackling madly and trying with little success to get at him from behind Croc. Not a day went by that those two weren’t at each other’s throats, reliable as they were in the field. Maybe it was some kind of screwed up domestic thing – you could fight and kill next to someone, but not share their shampoo.

“Knock it off,” Rick shouted, and they stopped at once. Boomer spat on the ground, and Harley snarled, both turning away from the other with stiff spines. Floyd looked relieved, while Croc was bordering on murderous; he was probably sick of playing bouncer.

“We’re only here for a couple hours,” said Rick. “Now this safe house is secure, but it’s not soundproof. If we get discovered because one of you morons didn’t get your Froot Loops or whatever -,”

“They were Fruity Pebbles, and Croc definitely took them yesterday,” Boomer interrupted hotly.

Rick gave him a withering look and decided not to comment, more for his own mental stability.

“Keep it down,” he continued dryly, “and try to get some rest. Bravo will be here before noon.”

“Unless the Wall decides to cut us off and let us rot here,” said Harley conversationally. “We’d have to start a commune to survive. Invent our own religion. Plant a vegetable garden.”

“She’ll come for us,” said Floyd darkly. “We’re a security risk, if nothing else. She’d show up to put us in the ground even if she didn’t want us on the Task Force anymore.” He winked at Rick. “Your killer app’s broken, right? And we’re out of range.”

“Story time’s over,” Rick retorted coolly, and started unpacking sleeping bags and foil blankets. It was cold out here at night, under the wide open sky, and their supplies were running low after so many days of having to orchestrate quick getaways. Their first safe house had been compromised within three days, and Rick had awoken to Floyd’s eyes, flint-black in the night, his breath frozen in his lungs as green dots appeared on their chests. Six minutes and several pints of blood loss from both parties later, and they were on the road again. This was safe house number two; smaller, more derelict, with a broken toilet bowl sitting in the kitchenette. It was the appropriate standard for their team, Rick thought resignedly.

He went about unfurling the military-grade sleeping bags, the others milling about behind him. There were some mumbled discussions, Croc’s bass timbre standing out a mile as he described to Harley why he didn’t need a blanket.

“Blood’s like ice, baby,” he rumbled.

“That’s not how reptiles work, and you’re human anyway,” said Rick abruptly, and tossed Croc a foil blanket. “Rest of us can share, Croc, it’s fine. You can have one.”

Croc looked mollified as he sat down clumsily in a corner, drawing the silver cover around his shoulders. Harley was smiling at Rick in a toothy way that always made his skin crawl. It was the way Croc looked at rare steaks.

“Mr Good Guy strikes again,” she said with a giggle, darting up to pluck a sleeping bag from the duffle Rick had been sorting though, oblivious to Boomer’s sneer. “They got a point system for you or somethin’? You put in an application for the Justice Team?”

“League.”

“Uh huh. Whatever you say, boss.” 

She unrolled the bag next to Croc, who was peering at them owlishly from under his blanket. Boomer’s hand snuck into view from Rick’s other side and he slapped it automatically.

“ _AGH_. What the hell, mate? Can’t a man get some decent bedding around here without being subject to the kind of _abuse_ -,”

“Tell it to another bleeding heart, Boomer. You can have this one.” He held out an insulation blanket that a sniper had shot clean through four or five times during the raid on the first safe house. It hadn’t been Boomer’s most inspired barricade as he dodged fire, but then his strangely padded coat had done the job of protecting him admirably. Rick still didn’t know what kind of paraphernalia he had stocked in there, nor did he care to find out.

“Fine. Fitting anyway, isn’t it?” He tactfully avoided Harley, skipping neatly to the opposite side of the room. Katana sidestepped him with a twisted mouth.

She tried valiantly to refuse a sleeping bag, jutting her chin out like she did in any conflict. Rick ignored her and threw her one without looking. “I’ll give it to Boomerang if you don’t take it,” he said nonchalantly to the duffle. Katana sighed almost inaudibly and set up camp between Harley and Boomer, careful to leave as much distance as possible between them.

“Hoshō?” she enquired, and Rick nodded. “I’ll take first watch,” he told her.

“Nope,” said Floyd, his voice managing to be reassuring and annoying all at once. It was quite a skill. Rick glared at him. “What now?”

“I’ll be taking first watch. I am the superior marksman after all. Plus, you need sleep.”

Rick could feel anger roiling inside him inexplicably. He wanted to hit Floyd, but that would likely only result in him being cuffed to Boomer or something as punishment. These bastards could be quite creative when it came to bringing him back to their level in a non-violent way. Usually. Harley gave him five stitches once for asking why her booty shorts kept getting shorter.

“Can I talk to you?” he said tightly. “Outside.”

Floyd’s eyebrow quirked but he shrugged and fell in behind him as Rick strode out the front door, making his way towards a copse of skeletal trees several feet from the house. It was coming close to dawn, but the night still lingered, the yard cast in charcoal grey. They were located just outside a small rural neighbourhood, with flat fields stretching to the mountains on the horizon, the stars spread out like a map above them. Hiding in plain sight.

Floyd sauntered over to where Rick waited, arms folded, his whole body as taut as a coiled spring.

“Yeah?” Floyd asked, hands on his hips like he was preparing for a lecture from the ol’ ball and chain. It was maddening.

“You need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

Floyd had more lines on his face than he’d had over a year ago in the Midway City incident. This feckless excursion made eighteen missions together since that fateful night. If he was a braver man, Rick would’ve asked him what it was about hired murder that let him sleep at night, while supposedly justified missions with the squad gave him grey hairs.

“This mothering crap. I’m a thirty-four year old man, I know when to eat and sleep. Why don’t _you_ take a load off and let me do my job commanding this team.”

Floyd looked taken aback for a whole second before swiftly recovering, arranging his features into something resembling contempt. 

“Excuse _me_ , Colonel Dick. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s our asses on the line too if you get shanked because you wore yourself down to a nub.”

Rick made a distinctly unattractive noise. “That’s bullshit these days, and you know it. Waller hates my guts after all the insubordination over the past few months. She’d love nothing better than to see me disappear. You were there when she said those exact words to me, remember?” He rolled his eyes. “You called her a ‘thankless douchebag’?”

“Oh yeah,” Floyd smiled wearily. “She was not happy. Denied visitation for a month.”

“Point is,” Rick ploughed ahead, “I don’t need to be watched over like a sick dog, alright? Just stop laying it on so thick. You don’t owe me anything.”

He made as if to leave. Floyd stepped neatly into his path, blocking his way to the door.

“This about earlier?”

“You’re a sharp one,” Rick replied sardonically. He pushed past Floyd, who grabbed his arm and yanked him back, his hand firm as a vice.

“That wasn’t your fault.” Floyd had gone quiet, and his eyes were hooded like they were when he got really serious. “I made that call.”

“I know it wasn’t my fault,” said Rick viciously, ripping his arm from Floyd’s grasp. “It was _yours_. I got into this programme knowing what it entailed. I know I’m fodder, it’s my _job_. That stunt you pulled -,”

“Saving your ungrateful ass is a stunt now?” said Floyd incredulously. “That prick had a gun on you, Rick. You’re telling me you actually expected me to – to _sacrifice_ you or something, just to stop him from helping let our mark escape?”

“That’s why you’re here!” Rick bellowed, his hands curled in fists as he stared Floyd down. “You’re under no obligation to preserve my life if doing so would interfere with the mission objective -,”

“Maybe I didn’t want to take the chance with that psycho Waller breathing down our necks!” Floyd roared back, a vein popping in his forehead. He looked shocked at his own admission almost immediately, and then his exhaustion seemed to bleed through as he sagged a little. Rick noticed his bloodshot eyes, the stubble shadowing his face.

“I didn’t mean -,”

“It’s fine,” said Rick, feeling hollow all of a sudden. “It’s fine, you were making sure Waller had no excuse to blow your head off. But this was an important job. You should have secured the HVT and dealt with everything else afterwards.” He ran his fingers through his cropped hair, the emptiness inside him paving the way for nausea. “Months of espionage from countless people, all in the shitter. That guy – whoever he is – he’s in the wind, now. We won’t catch up to him for a long time.”

Floyd looked tormented, pacing in front of him and rubbing his head. After a brief, ugly silence he stopped and looked miserably at Rick.

“You’re an idiot,” he said desperately. “A total idiot. I mean Jesus wept, Rick. We’ve been a squad for almost thirteen months now. You’ve been our C.O. since we tore ourselves apart saving the world, remember? And you’re seriously surprised that I’d let some random target do a runner if it saved your life _? Fuck_ that.”

Rick’s tongue seemed to be getting bigger, or his mouth was drying up like the Sahara. Either way, speech wasn’t his forte at the moment. Floyd looked comically outraged.

“Wouldn’t you do it for me?” he asked bluntly. Rick blinked.

“What?”

“If there was a standoff, like today, and someone gave you a choice between my life and completing the mission – which would you choose?”

A muscle jumped in Rick’s jaw. “The mission.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Floyd was smirking with satisfaction, and Rick felt like a gormless teenager, searching for words that were evaporating under Floyd’s blazing smile.

“Come on,” said Floyd lightly, hooking two fingers into the belt loop on Rick’s vest and pulling him back towards the house. Through the dust-smeared window they saw heads duck quickly out of sight, and as they approached they heard a distant thud, followed by a grunt of pain. Floyd snorted in disdain, but he looked more amused than anything.

Harley, Croc and Katana were enveloped in their respective duvets and blankets, carefully looking anywhere but Rick and Floyd. Boomer was rubbing his head, slightly dazed.

“Lover’s spat?” he asked idly. Floyd aimed a wayward kick at him as he passed his corner of the room to get to Rick’s duffle, stripping off his tactical gear as he went.

“Time for everyone to get some shut-eye before a bunch of soldiers show up with our zip-ties and armoured transport,” announced Floyd, digging through the bag and emerging with a single foil blanket, the only one left. He ignored Boomer’s disgruntled mumbling and slumped down between Harley and Katana. The latter’s eyes narrowed as she was forced to sidle closer to Boomer’s sleeping bag. He waggled his eyebrows at her stony expression. Rick was becoming rather worried that Boomerang would wake up the next day a testicle short if he kept that up.

“C’mon,” called Floyd.

“Thought you were going to be on watch,” growled Rick.

“I can do that,” said Croc lazily, manoeuvring himself carefully around Harley and standing up. He ambled toward the window, settling himself on the desk by it with an ominous creak, foil blanket draped around his head like ET.

“Wake me in two hours, Croc, I’ll take over,” said Floyd. He was beckoning to Rick and flapping the blanket as an invitation. “Only one left. Don’t make it weird.”

Rick groaned. “Perfect. That’s exactly what I want - Bravo squad discovering me at a supervillain slumber party. Photos’ll end up on the internet.”

“Waller wouldn’t let something like that leak, don’t worry. Though I might request a copy for blackmailing purposes.” He nodded at the floor beside him again. “Sometime this century, boss.”

Harley was flashing that shark-like grin at him again, so he swallowed his pride, slipping out of his vest and boots and lying down clumsily, sandwiched between Katana and Floyd. There was some light swearing and reorganising of knees and elbows, mostly due to Harley clinging to Floyd like a starfish. Rick was finding it difficult to believe they’d sleep pressed together like this, but it wasn’t like it was the first time.

Floyd was telling Harley in undertones to stop tickling him, that he was armed. She made a joke about his package, and over their bickering Boomer wondered aloud if aliens were real. Katana curtly reminded him of Superman while Harley muffled her screeching laughter, and Rick found himself drifting to the unnerving yet undeniable normalcy of it all. It was like the bustling cities he always lived in growing up, when his dad moved the family around for work, or when he was drafted, and the nights of his service were cloaked in secrecy or gunfire. He could never sleep in silence. He could never sleep alone.

After a while he was comfortably warm, and the others had quietened down some. Strands of hair at the back of Katana’s head trembled with his every exhale, and Floyd was close enough for Rick to feel his body heat against his back. Boomer’s snores were filling the small room in a lulling tempo, the outside world deceptively silent.

When he woke, it was to fabric rustling behind him, and rotted floorboards creaking at the other corner of the room. The sun was spilling watery light into the dilapidated safe house, and somewhere birds twittered half-heartedly. He forced his heart rate to slow, his military training having him immediately alert, and strained his neck to see what was really happening.

Croc and Floyd were changing shifts as sentries, it seemed, Croc settling into his makeshift nest beside Harley. He always slept lightly, and with his mouth slightly open, his teeth a clear warning to anyone thinking of bothering him. Just like a real crocodile. Rick wondered if he should tell Croc one day how much their current relationship was bolstered by Rick’s late-night perusals of Wikipedia articles on reptiles.

He felt eyes on him, and met Floyd’s oddly piercing gaze somewhat sheepishly. He nodded at him, and laid back on the floor. Katana whispered something distressfully in her sleep.

“Thanks,” he said to the mouldy ceiling after an indeterminate amount of time.

“Any time,” Floyd replied softly. Then, “Waller’s orders or no.”

Rick didn’t know what to say to that, so he fell asleep to the others’ rhythmic breathing, the world continuing to get a little brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> -
> 
>  
> 
> \- Assume they captured Harley some time after her escape from Belle Reve.
> 
> \- Qurac is a made-up Middle-Eastern country from the DC 'verse that the Suicide Squad frequent.
> 
> \- The Onslaught are also a canonical terrorist group.


End file.
